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Selected Verses 



By DAVID GRAHAM ADEE 






Privately Printed 

1905 






lOOi 



CONTENTS 

1^ Page. 
^ The Sentence of Robert Emmet, 5 

* Mosaics i» Memory, ----- g 

^ _ At Rome, -- 10 

pt Erin Go Bragh, 12 

^ The Grave of Marshal Ney, - - - - 14 

^ The Scots at Waterloo, - - - - - - - - - -16 

Literary Luxury, -----19 

A Life and a Loch, 22 

The Boatmen of Bree, 23 

An Easter Carol, - - - - - -24 

The Old Meeting-House, - - -26 

Sconset Lights, ------ 28 

Baal, -- 30 

The Constitution, 31 

Off Cherbourg, 33 

Lester Wallack, - 35 

The Mermaid Tavern, 36 

In Shakespeare's Time, - 38 

Oliver Goldsmith and His Pipe, 40 

Robert Burns at Mossgiel, - - - 42 

The Duel of Burr and Hamilton, 45 

General Garfield's Mother, 47 

Elberon, 49 

Aloha! -------- _50 

On the Rio Grande, ----------- ^3 

The Poets' Corner, --._ ^^ 

The Lights of Baltimore, ---------- 56 

Sheridan, _-._ ___^8 

Brown October, 59 

Santiago, -------60 

Our Soldiers' Song, - -- - - - - - - - -61 

At General Wauchope's Grave, - - - - - - - -62 



A 



THE SKNTBNCK OF ROBERT EMMET. 

CROWDED court, a breathless bar, 

Both judge and jury flushed with rage, 
A fearless felon there to mar 

And blot with shame Britannia's page ! 
A hero brave, a rebel bold, 

A patriot to make tyrants pause, 
A man of gallant, martial mould, 

A martyr in his country's cause! 

And who the prisoner in the dock? 

And what his crime against the state? 
And why a doom worse than the block 

Pronounced on one so good and great? 
A name with honor to be known 

In every age and every land 
Where freedom bravely holds her own 

And freemen rally, hand in hand ! 

O Robert Emmet, glorious son 

Of liberty and Erin's love. 
Thy dying words have but begun 

To echo to the skies above ! 
Thy crime, thy country's pride and boast, 

Thy death the dearest men may crave, 
To drive the despot from her coast, 

A people to unchain and save ! 

The brutal Toler jibes and jeers, 

The sneering Plunket smiles in scorn, 
While Irishmen are moved to tears 

And generous breasts with grief are torn, 
As Emmet dares the bench's worst. 

Its ruthless wrath, the hangman's knot, 
A sentence cruel and accurst, 

A fate that cannot be forgot ! 



And all for love of native land, 

Of friends and fields and firesides dear, 
He stands a champion, royal, grand, 

Of noble front without a fear ! 
His cheeks unblanched, his pulse unchecked, 

To face the gallows and the grave, 
A victim for the altar decked 

With blessings that about him wave ! 

"Let no man write my epitaph, 

But lay my memory in the tomb 
Until the bitter cup we quaff 

Be wreathed with the shamrock's bloom ! 
And dear old Ireland takes her place 

Among the nations of the world, 
The sunburst lighting up her face. 

Her emerald flag again unfurled!" 

He died amid the heartfelt grief 

Of comrades, brothers, in the strife, 
None strong enough to yield relief. 

No pit}'^ there to spare his life ! 
And Britain's doom was breathed that morn 

In judgment on the rising gale. 
For vows of dire revenge were borne 

On sighs that soon became a wail ! 

The life that Emmet freely gave 

Is cherished in a nation's soul ! 
The love he bore springs from his grave 

To bless the earth while time shall roll ! 
His sacred gift, a sainted name, 

Hibemia, is forever thine, 
To lead thy sons to endless fame, 

Thy daughters to a holy shrine ! 



The Harp of Tara sounds once more, 

For patriot fingers sweep the strings, 
And heroes throng the blood-stained shore 

Whose cheer above the battle rings ! 
The seed that swells in Irish sod 

V/as sown by hands upraised on high 
In prayer and reverence to God, 

And martvr-harvests never die ! 

The soul of Kmmet marches on 

Among the silent, serried ranks, 
With steadfast eyes toward the sun, 

Upon eternity's green banks ! 
The book of fate is never shut. 

Nor dr}^ the ink on history's page, 
Till right above the wrong is put 

And justice triumphs o'er the age ! 



MOSAICS IN MEMORY. 



"Mutum est pictura poema.' 



c 



ROWN cities of Italia ! Fair Firenze 

Clasping the Arno with voluptuous arms ! 
Rare palaces of art whose treasures frenzy 

Rapt worshippers of Praxiteles' s charms ! 
Pitti, Uffizi ! Twin repositories 

Whose stores of sculpture tell of Grecian skill ! 
Venus Medici ! Poets sing thy glories ! 

Thy lines aesthetic Phidian-f ancies fill ! 

Venezia ! Glancing golden in the moonlight, 

Soft stroking Adriatic's waving curls! 
Thou art 'mid radiant ripples, growing soon bright, 

With myriad gondolas whose tall prow purls ! 
San Marco, Doges' Dungeons, Span of Sighs ! 

Vexed is the mind with memories and dreams ; 
For peer or peasant by the headsman dies : 

Thy page, Venezia, with illusions teems ! 

Gay NapoH ! Sweet city of the sea. 

Near by Vesuvius' s molten mouth ! 
Thy breezes and blue billows float to me 

Fragrant with spices from the fruitful South ! 
Isle Capri ! Oranges and nectarines. 

Blue grotto, and bouquet of daintiest wines ! 
These, with round ridges, deck the smiling scenes, 

And scant-garbed rustics pruning luscious vines ! 



Imperial Roma! Caesar's costly throne! 

Leaning upon the Tiber in decay ! 
What wonders to the world thy soul-felt moan 

With whispers weird imparts and points the way ! 
Mortality's mausoleum ! Thus great peoples, 

Kingdoms and empires each in season roll ! 
Their falling stones and overturning steeples 

Mere atoms on Eternity's grand scroll ! 

Four cities like to these no country other 

Than ripe Italia 'neath her orient sky 
Can claim — of music, heavenly art, the mother — 

Whose mighty Creed the centuries hold high ! 
Thy knell once sounded, and no longer swelling 

From sea to sea and mount to mount supreme 
Thy clarion calls — but chime wild echoes telling 

Of Romans waking from a weird, dark dream. 



Rome, 1871. 



AT ROME. 



S Pius passed I held my breath — 
My heart stood still as if in death. 

Why should an unbeliever feel 
Such awe and superstition steal? 

A kind old man with silvery hair 
And face sweet with religion rare. 

Methought it is not all alone 
Because he sits the papal throne; 

It is not that he reigns a king 
And wears the sacred signet ring, 

Or that he is the father here 

To chide the sin, to dry the tear; 

Or that he wields the holy keys 
For penitents upon their knees. 

Not these the reasons, right or wrong, 
I trembled as he rode along 

In chariot rich with gems and gold, 
To bless the children of his fold. 

But that the heart of human kind, 
Weary of groping, faint and blind. 

Despairing of the unseen power 
Coming to earth in longed-for hour 

To speak to prayer, to smile on praise. 
To cheer the faithful's wistful gaze, 

Had clothed this presence with all good, 
To give the sinners saintly food. 

lO 



I87I. 



To set before the senses' soul 
Comfort and consolation's dole. 

Two thousand years have given place 
Since men have looked upon God's face; 

And the soul yearns for something real 
To represent the rapt ideal. 

If that mankind have sought to give 
A form to goodness while they live, 

Will not the One supreme above 
Reward their longing with His love? 

Thus, as I viewed the emblem there, 
An aureole seemed to glint the air. 

My spirit thrilled in blent accord 

With earth's great type of Heaven's Lord. 



II 



ERIN GO BRAGH. 

STOOD beside Killamey's lakes 

When autumn tints were in the sky, 
And emerald sward with shamrock flakes 
Charmed gratefully the eye. 

I thought of Erin's glorious past, 
The flag that waved beside my own 

When Southern shot fell thick and fast 
Where brothers' blood was sown. 

I thought of Emmet, brave and young, 
Who died to hallow Erin's name; 

I thought of Carolan who flung 
Abroad in sons: her fame. 



"^C) 



Of Moore and his sad patriot strain. 
The Harp that once thro' Tara's Halls, 

The Minstrel Boy who now again 
For his dear country falls. 

I thought of Curran's classic word 

That braved a furious, frowning court ; 

Of Grattan's that the nation heard 
With faith and freedom fraught. 

I thought of many a merry day 
Of laugh and jest and native wit, 

Of Irish jigs and pipers' play 
With dew to moisten it. 

Of jaunting cars and kirtles red. 
Of sparkling eyes for mischief made, 

Of Boyne, w^here Celtic blood was shed 
In streams that never fade. 



12 



And as I gazed on Erin green 

The waters of the lake were stirred, 

And sunset shed a dazzUng sheen 
As sang the vesper bird. 

Farewell, sweet land to sorrow born, 
A soulf elt tear is fondly thine ! 

Thy sons my country's crest have worn. 
Our loving hearts entwine. 



13 



THE GRAVE OF MARSHAL NEY. 



N Pere la Chaise, when jasmine blooms, 
And sheds its fragrance o'er the tombs. 
The tourist from our friendly land. 
With red-bound guidebook in his hand. 

Oft seeks the grave 

Where no flags wave 
Of the bravest of Napoleon's band. 

No blazonry proclaims his fame. 
No stone records the hero's name; 
But he, in a neglected square. 
Of soldier's grand insignia bare. 

Lies 'neath the sod 

Where grasses nod 
And breezes sound like bugles' blare. 

Brave Michel Ney, who won the day 
On many a field of desperate fray, 
Spurred by Napoleon's eagle glance. 
Marshal of proud, imperious France, 

Brilliant thy dreams 

As bayonet gleams, 
- Or clash of sword and flash of lance ! 

Of Austerlitz and Austria's might, 

A host at morn, a horde at night ! 

Of Wagram, whose artillery roar 

The old world shook from shore to shore ! 

Of Waterloo, 

Where thou wast true 
Unto thy Emperor to the core ! 



14 



Did Wellington and Bliiclier feel 

A foeman worthier of their steel, 

In all their long career of war, 

Than when that day of blood they saw, 

Far in the front. 

To bear the brunt, 
Ney lead the Guard in death's grim jaw? 

Hail to the hero, through and through, 
Loyal as brave, and brave as true, 
Whom, daring for his emperor all. 
The allies shot, and o'er his pall 

Incense upcurled 

And flags were furled 
As France bewailed her marshal's fall! 



15 



D 



THE SCOTS AT WATBRI.OO. 



OWN in the dike like kye we lay, 

Back of Hougomont's brown chateau, 
From cloudy noon till the close of day. 
With cannon over our ranks at play, 
Highlanders brave of feud and fray, 
Bonny blue-bonnets ranged in a row. 

France was massed on the plain around, 

Bonaparte at her gallant head ; 
Black dragoons plowing up the ground. 
And guns at work with a thunder sound, 
While we of the plaid beneath the mound 
Idly loitered asleep — or dead. 

What the deil was the duke about? 

Prone our lines in the crowded trench, 
Torn by artillery inside out, 
The flags of the enemy far afiout 
As if the British had had the rout, 

Lads who always had flogged the French, 

Sergeants and soldiers wounded, lost, 

vShot to death in that streaming ditch. 
Stubborn as stone at whatever cost, 
Splinters of shells upon us tossed. 
The Grenadiers of the Guards thus forced 
To linger like girls, at fever pitch. 

The sun sank low, and the crisis came : 
British bull-dogs had stood for hours, 
Worn and bleeding, but falling game, 
Exposed to a sheet of smoke and flame 
For the sake of old England's endless fame, 
And now the fate of the beaten ours. 



i6 



Onward marched the Imperial Guard, 

Michel Ney at its bristling front : 
Where the wisdom of watch and ward, 
There, on the ground so wet and hard. 
For bodies broken and bruised and scarred, 

Ours of the kilts who bore the brunt? 

Yet deep in the dike like dolts we sat, 

Back of Hougomont's brown chateau. 
Some half -kneeling and some down flat. 
Wondering what our ain Wellesley was at. 
Astride of his gray in a plain cocked-hat. 
Silently biding the coming blow. 

A stir and shout all along the line, 

Hoarse as the roar of a Highland flood, 
The voice of the Thames, the Seine, the Rhine, 
When winds and waters in war combine, 
Heating the heart like a draught of wine. 
And setting on fire our fighting blood. 

Galloped the staff to the van of the ranks, 

Riding afore it the iron man, 
Grim of feature and gaunt of flanks, 
Who had all da}^ cantered along the banks, 
His gray eye fixed on the charging Franks, 

As steady the tide of the struggle ran. 

Rang out his words like a pibroch-blast. 

Firm and free as the drum's quick roll, 
"Up and at them!" and bold and fast 
We sprang to arms for the fight at last. 
And over the mead our columns passed 

To face the French as they climbed the knoll. 



17 



Breast to breast with our bayonets keen, 
Knee to knee as we thrust straight home ! 

Red the grass that was once so green, 

Fatal the flash of the steel's white sheen ! 

Sheaves of flesh would the reapers glean, 
Rich the furrows with fertile loam. 

Small avail the fierce fury we met, 
Mont St. Jean was a triumph gained ; 

Kre summer's sun o'er the land had set 

We saw a sight we could ne'er forget, 

A strewn field haunted with horrors yet 
On which the star of Napoleon waned. 

For Gael met Gaul 'mid the crash of guns. 
The clatter of hoofs, and the clash of steel. 

As rushed the Romans to meet the Huns. 

No Scot of us all a sword-stroke shuns 

Or oft' from the death-shot ever runs. 
Whether the bout bring woe or weal. 

Up from the earth where we'd lain since morn 
Back of Hougomont's brown chateau, 

Sir Arthur summoned his spears of corn 

To yield him a harvest of battle born, 

Scotish chiels whom the kilts adorn 
Alike v/ell-worthy of friend and foe. 

And when ye gaze on the golden grain 

That waves in the winds that softly woo, 
Ye' 11 ken that the laddies who knelt in the rain 
All through the throes of impatience and pain 
Were the tartans who drove back the French again 
And gave to Wellington Waterloo. 

i8 



w 



LITERARY LUXURY. 

HEN of a winter night I sit 

Before my study fire, 
I love to muse o'er authors' wit 

Or Hst the poet's lyre, 
To quick forget the day's reverse 

And lose all thought of pelf. 
And take for better or for worse . 

My books from off their shelf. 

'Tis seldom worse, I do confess, 

For few so true as these 
Which tenderly my hands caress 

That lie upon m}^ knees, 
And lift the mind to ideal things, 

To humorous flights of mirth. 
As soars the soul on fancy's wings 

To realms afar from earth. 

If I am weary and alone 

What comrade is so dear 
As Goldsmith's Vicar, all my own 

His Ingleside's vv^arm cheer! 
Olivia beside me knits, 

Sophia lights my pipe. 
And manly Burchell silent sits 

Of heroes finest type. 

If jovial, Lawrence Sterne I scan 

And laugh with honest Trim 
At Uncle Toby, brave old man, 

Or Widow Wadman's whim, 
And drop a tear to drown the oath 

An angel's pinions hide — 
Humor and pathos, sisters both. 

O'er Tristram's page preside. 

19 



Fielding and Smollett while an hour 

With wizard's wand away, 
Though gallant Tom falls in the power 

Of Bellaston. the gay, 
And Random is a trifle wild, 

And Clinker over cold. 
And fair Sophia all so mild. 

And Peregrine too bold. 

What wonderland in Dickens glows — 

Young Copperfield at school, 
Wilkins Micawber's chronic woes. 

And Heep, more knave than fool ; 
James Steerforth dashing to the end, 

Aunt Betsy Trotwood, too, 
And Dick, the oracle and friend. 

With Dora, crowd the view. 

Ah, kindly Mr. Pickwick this ! 

And that poor Little Nell ! 
And there we see Bob Cratchit's bliss 

With Tiny Tim grown well ! 
God bless the merry Christmas time 

With generous festive cheer — ■ 
List to the music of the chime ! 

How now? A smile and tear? 

Fill up the fire and trim the light. 

Draw up an easy chair, 
For Thackeray it is to-night 

With wicked Becky there ! 
But see ! The dear old Colonel comes. 

With Clive and prattling Boy, 
As Esmond into Flanders roams 

And Beatrix beams with joy. 

20 



Hah ! Irving with his Dutchman dight 

In breeks a baker's dozen, 
And Rip, the idle drunken wight. 

His shrewish Frau to cozen; 
Katrina's blooming cheeks are red 

And ripe with roseate blushes, 
At Crane the Horseman hurls his head 

As o'er the bridge he rushes. 

Of poets, Poe drops in the most 

And side by side with Scott, 
Tho' Byron often rules the roast 

With Robie Bums, I wot; 
While Moore and Hood, those genial bards, 

Knock gently at my door 
With Tennyson and leave their cards 

Where Shakespeare called before. 

Welcome, old cronies of the brain, 

I'll love you to the last, 
And greet you o'er and o'er again 

Till sight and sense are past ! 
I'll wring the trusty hero's hand, 

I'll kiss the heroine's brow, 
And hie me into fairyland 

With all my heart, I trow. 

Pray God, while through the world I tread, 

This motley, checkered scene. 
These orchards luscious fruit shall shed, 

These fields be always green ! 
For on life's fateful, transient stage. 

Though golden locks turn gray. 
Mine are the friends that never age — 

To them I pen my lay. 



London, 1873. 

21 



^■"^^^ 



A LIFE AND A LOCH. 



HE wave rolls out and the wave rolls in — 

List to its din ; 
While the broken keel on the rugged shore 
Tells a story of ruin and wreck once more 

As ever has been. 

The surf breaks fierce on the rough black rock — 

Hark to the shock ! 
But the boatman who held the prow to the spray 
When the morning beckoned the night away 

Lies in the Loch. 

The tide sweeps close to the gudevv^ife's feet — 

Sair does she greet ! 
But the waters will never wash back again 
The smile and the kiss and the love they have slain 

However they beat. 

The froth caps sparkle blithesome and gay 

In foam and spray; 
But one heart never from sleep awoke 
And the other in silence and sorrow broke, 

Alas the day ! 

And the crests and the surf and the tide still throng, 

And moan their song 
As the mournful story their music tells 
In every sigh the wild wind swells 

And wails along. 



22 



o 



THE BOATMEN OF BREE. 



N the gray sands they are sadly sitting, 
Heavy their hearts as the rocks of Bree, 

Clumsy the fingers so busily knitting 
Or flinging round pebbles into the sea ; 
Flinging smooth pebbles into the sea 
That surges and foams on the coasts of Bree. 

"O, wasting waters! O, wandering waters! 

O, wild white surf of the shores of Bree ! 
Tell us, puir bodies of boatmen's daughters, 

Where are our gudemen upon the sea? 

Where are our fishermen on the sea ? 

Our bonny brave lads of the isles o' Bree." 

Cold comes the spray from the stormy waters, 
Hoarse fall the voices of wind and sea. 

Crying: "Sad tidings we bring, puir daughters, 
From the salt waves of the raging sea ; 
Your sailors are drowned in the trough of the sea, 
In the billows that break on the shores of Bree." 

On the wet sands they are idly sitting, 

Far off their thoughts as they gaze out to sea; 

Listless the hands once so busily knitting. 
Broken their hearts on the reefs of Bree, 
Shipwrecked their lives in the wash of the sea, 
The breakers that buried the boatmen of Bree. 



23 



c 



AN EASTER CAROL. 



HIME cheerily, ye Easter bells, 
With rapturous rhythm ring ! 
In every tone an anthem swells, 
The peal the wondrous story tells 
Of man's arisen King. 



There is a glory in that morn 

Beyond all other days — 
The cerements of the grave are torn. 
The dead to endless life are bom. 

Amid resounding praise. 

As One immortal thus arose. 

Most human yet divine. 
So flees the darkest of our foes. 
So falls the burden of our woes, 

Brothers, both yours and mine. 



Look upward from these finite bands, 
That chain us to the earth ! 

Man has the help of angel hands 

To lift him to celestial lands 
And greet the spirit's birth. 



Joyous the hymn the season sings 

Of hope and life and love, 
That solace to the longing brings 
Who wait to soar on seraph's wings 
Through faith to realms above. 



24 



He is the Way, the Truth, the Life, 

The soul's all-saving leaven ; 
Turn from the cares of worldly strife, 
The ills with which our days are rife, 
Unto Our Friend in heaven ! 

Chime merrily, ye Easter bells, 
With rapturous rhythm ring ! 
In every tone an anthem swells. 
The peal the glorious story tells 
Of earth's eternal King. 



Nkw York City, 1873. 



25 



THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE. 

RESTED in a ruined meeting-house, 

And phantoms of the generations gone 
Came round about me, reveries to arouse 
Of all the phases to which flesh is born. 

I saw the pulpit as it stood of yore. 

The prayerful preacher telling of the tomb, 

The village choir perched up above the door, 
And patient listeners in pensive gloom. 

Yet not all so, for here and there a look 

Of faith and trust supreme would haply glow 

And turn devoutly to the sacred book. 
In glad submission to the lot below. 

On yonder high-backed bench a tiny waif 

Of weak humanity in parental arms 
Abides the christening, innocently safe 

From all the horrors of heretic harms. 

A bridal pair, with tell-tale blush aglow, 

Await impatiently the holy word 
Which binds about their hearts the nuptial bow, 

The sweetest sound that either ever heard. 

And when the sermon ends, the tolling bell. 

The silent retinue, the sable pall. 
The wail of anguish, the sad story tell 

Of sin's just sentence resting upon all. 

Those green young boughs fresh budding into bloom. 
Those bent old branches weather-worn and gray 

Alike have passed the portals of the tomb 
And melted like the morning mist away. 

26 



Soon sinking as a sunset out of view, 

The congregation, choir and preacher fade, 

And but remain the antiquated pew 
And empty pulpit, broken and decayed. 

And so, methought, the generations glide. 
And vanish like the visions of the night. 

Nor tarry on th' inexorable tide 
That wafts the soul eternal into light. 



27 



s 



SCONSHT LIGHTS. 

COXSET Lights are burning low 

Through winding sheets of whirHng snow; 
Whitecap waves wash madly forth, 
Surging combers from the North; 
Black old ocean fumes and fights 
By the rocks round Sconset Lights. 

Sconset Lights ! How dark the tale 
Of wintr\^ night and howling gale ! 
Sudden shipwreck, all hands lost, 
Drowned men on the ledges tossed ; 
Day disclosing fearful sights 
In the surf bv Sconset Lisrhts ! 



^o-" 



Sconset Lights, despair and grief 
Have hovered o'er 3'our angry reef! 
Sailor wives 'mid tears and blood 
Seeking dear ones in the flood. 
WTiere the seagulls wing their flights 
Round the rocks of Sconset Lights. 

Sconset Lights ! Poor mothers moan. 
The widows and the orphans groan ; 
Salt tears fall for vanished lives 
In the ship that ne'er arrives; 
Longing many a fond heart blights, 
For love lost 'neath Sconset Lights. 

Sconset Lights, your lamps are bright 
When stars illume the tranquil night; 
Warm sea breezes fan your tower 
Soft as breath from maiden's bower; 
Balmy summer crowns yom: heights, 
Smile the skies o'er Sconset Lights ! 

28 



Sconset Lights are all aglow 
O'er crested seas that ebb and flow, 
Welcome beacons to the souls 
On the ship that homeward rolls, 
Warned afar from peril's frights 
By the flare of Sconset Lights. 



Nantucket, 1878. 



29 




BAAL. 

HEN Ninus reigned in Nineveh 

And Babylon smiled beneath the stars, 
And Menes ruled o'er Egypt's plain, 

And grim Sesostris waged his wars. 
Who were the world's own people then? 

Why have they gone and left no sign? 
Alas ! those hordes of mortal men 

Were thou and I, and thine and mine. 

Then laid the mother down to rest 

Close by the babe her bosom fed, 
And children played beside the Nile, 

And maids were wooed and women wed; 
And shone the full Assyrian moon 

In silvery silence on the earth, 
As the red blood in myriad hearts 

Leapt warm and quick with health and mirth 

Three thousand years, and where are we? 

Three thousand years and people will 
Look up in revery at the stars 

That twinkle over Babylon still. 
And ask. Who trod the emerald earth? 

And wonder why we left no sign ; 
While the hot blood in glad 3^oung hearts 

Will leap and dance like ruby wine. 

Will the world thus forever roll 

And generations come and go 
As when King Menes sat enthroned 

And old Sesostris scourged the foe? * 
Who shall the earth's own people be 

When we too die and leave no sign? 
Alas ! these hordes of human men 

Are thou and I, and thine and mine. 

Washington, D. C, May 9, 1879. 

30 



o 



THE CONSTITUTION. 

LD Ironsides ! Old Ironsides ! 

Preserve the decks our heroes trod 
When 'mid the roar of hostile guns 

They gave their fearless souls to God. 
They shed their blood for native land, 

They fought that freemen should be free, 
With steadfast hearts, and sword in hand, 

Beneath the flag of Liberty. 

Old Ironsides ! Old Ironsides ! 

Touch not those noble timbers true 
That under Captain Hull's command 

Performed the deeds that warships do. 
The Guerriere she met at sea ! 

To dare her to a deadly fight 
And poured her broadsides gallantly 

For honor, glory, and the right. 

Old Ironsides! Old Ironsides! 

"Hull her," the shout the hero gave 
As onward came the Guerriere, 

"And sink her in a watery grave." 
Yet when the British ensign fell 

And Dacres tendered Hull his sword — 
"No; one who uses it so well," 

Said he, "should keep it — not a word." 

Old Ironsides ! Old Ironsides ! 

'Twas well that gallant Stewart taught 
A lesson to the foe when both 

The Cyane and Levant were caught. 
Tom were their beams by solid shot 

The Constitution hurled below. 
And not a man on board forgot 

The Yankee guns incessant glow. 

31 



Old Ironsides ! Old Ironsides ! 

Hail to that ever-hallowed name 
That cheers the nations of the earth 

With clarion ring of Freedom's fame. 
No Vandal stroke should wound her deck, 

No sacrilegious blow destroy, 
But she should float that grand old wreck, 

A grateful people's love and joy. 

Old Ironsides! Old Ironsides! 

That good old ship should stand for aye, 
A relic of the glorious past 

Like Nelson's war-worn Victory. 
Oh, save the ship that bore on high 

The Stars and Stripes through battles' din ! 
Her brave old flag shall proudly fly 

A nation's reverence to win. 



32 



o 



OFF CHERBOURG. 



UR flag swung free from the old Kearsarge 
->»; As she rode at the mouth of the Scheldt, 
And on the horizon's seaward marge 
Both snowy sail and shadowy barge 
The force of the west wind felt. 

Fluttered the cornet aloft at the fore, 

Smartly our crew sprang aboard, 
Blue-capped middies and sailors more, 
Salts just fresh from a cruise ashore, 
To serve where the broadsides roared. 

Point her prow to the Frenchman's coast, 

Off Cherbourg the pirate lies. 
Like the Flying Dutchman's stormy ghost. 
While her saucy pennon, so full of boast. 

Floats in the breeze as it sighs. 

Out on the ocean to grapple in fight, 

Open her ports to the guns ! 
Away from the shelter of neutral right. 
To the briny sea and the cannon's might. 

And the battle that bursts and stuns ! 

Far in the offing steams the ship, 

A rakish and corsair craft 
That British silver and gold equip. 
The bristling Yankee to taunt and whip. 

Her steel guns fore and aft. 

Fife and drum quick to quarters play, 

Cheer the crew in the shrouds, 
Breaking the calm of the summer da}^ 
With the crash of arms and the flash of fray. 

As death-bolts fly from the clouds. 



33 



Winslow stands on the quarterdeck 

Stanch as the steel of his sword ; 
"Fire!" he shouts, "until that dark speck 
Sinks in the waters a helpless wreck:" 

As the broadsides thunder aboard. 

"Shell her astern and shatter her side, 

Splinter her, timbers and mast!" 
Driven her men to the swelling tide, 
Dips her flag as the chain-shot glide, 
And the heat of the combat is past. 

Settles the hull of the rover flag, 

With her blackened cannon and crew. 
Her bowsprit last, like a treacherous snag, 
No more on the ocean to bluster and brag. 
But the waves with her wreck to strew. 

Shame on the Briton who steals from the scene 

With Semmes and his foreign horde, 
To cheat of their laurels so fresh and green 
The heroes who harvests of victory glean. 
Their sickle the patriot sword. 

The Alabama lies deep in the sea, 

The English channel her grave. 
While the states of the Union are one and free, 
With slavery over, and liberty 

Our glory on land and wave. 



34 



LESTER WALIvACK. 



ACTOR, playwright, gentleman! 
Living, great in many parts ! 
Dead, thy lasting love began 
To rear its fane in faithful hearts ! 

Thine, the theatre of hfe ! 

Thine, the tragic scene of death ! 
Thine, the stage with radiance rife ! 

Thine, the player's laurel wreath ! 

Wallack ! That illustrious name, 
Heritage of a glorious past, 

Had from thee a wealth of fame 

To live while Thespian art shall last ! 

Hero of the drama, dead 
In the sere, the yellow leaf. 

Ripe the harvest o'er thy head, 
Garnered thy eternal sheaf ! 



35 



w 



THE MERMAID TAVERN. 

HERE London streets entangled 

The Mermaid Tavern stood ; 
There mugs and tobies jangled, 
And sword-belt richly spangled 
Wore many a callant good. 

The oaken benches centered 

About the laden board 
When lord or poet entered 
And drank from foaming tankard 

Where catch and glee were roared. 

If one is not mistaken 

(And who is always right?) 

The sight of Francis Bacon 

Was wonted to awaken 
A plaudit of delight. 

Whene'er Ben Jonson swaggered 

Inside the tavern door, 
The guests assembled staggered 
Afoot to greet the laggard 

With flagfon to the floor. 



•-C)^ 



And as a dashing hero 

A poet bore the palm 
Without reproach or fear O, 
A Bayard in his sphere O, 

Kit Marlowe, brave and calm. 

But paled the rays of glory 
Before a presence grand, 
The theme of song and story 
Until the years grow hoary 
In everv clime and land. 



36 



In that historic cavern 

Great Shakespeare trod the stage, 
The mighty Bard of Avon 
Who crowned the ancient tavern 

With fame from age to age. 

'Twas thence that tales of humor 
Throughout the town were told 
By ready tongues of rumor, 
Like lightnings to illume her 
And dazzling wit unfold. 

Lord Bacon's learning planted 
The flowers of wisdom bright, 

A boon that ne'er was granted 

To other halls so haunted. 
Or other scenes so light. 

O hours of golden nectar 

And brown October malt ; 
Ben Jonson's jokes bedecked-a, 
Kit Marlowe's stanzes flecked-a, 
And Shakespeare's Attic salt ! 



37 



T 



IN SHAKESPEARE'S TIME. 



HE English maid, Elizabeth, 

Than whom no loftier lady lived. 
Or grander sovereign e'er drew breath ; 

Who ne'er by man was wooed or wived, 
Nor e'er was widow to her death, 
Was Queen sublime 
In Shakespeare's time. 

Old London town was festive then. 

By bustling Thames, in crowded Strand, 
With beauteous women, honored men, 

Whose fame was blazoned through the land, 
When Shakespeare's, Jonson's, Marlowe's pen 
Gave soul to rhyme 
In Shakespeare's time. 

Lord Bacon held the chancery seal. 

Sir Walter Raleigh sailed the seas, 
God's bount)^ blessed the common weal 

Where England's standard kissed the breeze, 
And all throughout the realm were leal 
At Albion's prime 
In Shakespeare's time. 

The dramatists of England shed 

The glow of genius on the stage ; 
Poet and playwright triumphs led 
Which glorified that golden age ; 
Philosophy and poetry wed 
To dulcet chime 
In Shakespeare's time. 



38 



And of that marriage there were born 

The fancies of a godUke brain, 
To glad the spirit in its mom 

And soothe the soul at night again, 
Fragrant with life when age has worn 
As fresh wild th3niie 
In Shakespeare's time. 

Prince Hamlet, Richard, old King Lear 

Evoked the wonder of mankind ; 
Othello's rage filled all with fear. 

While Romeo's love charmed every mind. 
The world awoke with smile or tear 
To farthest clime 
In Shakespeare's time. 

The flowers of Shakespeare, Bacon's fruit, 

Upon each ever-blossoming stem 
To wit and wisdom rendered suit 

In richest robe with rarest gem ; 
Nor did the voice of skeptic bruit 
Of letters' crime 
In Shakespeare's time. 



39 



I 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND HIS PIPE. 

N day-dreams I love to rove with thee 

On the banks of the winding Loire, 
To listen to thy sweet minstrelsy 

For the peasantry's kind pourboire ; 
A coarse black loaf, a bumper of wine, 

A couch of the fresh elm leaves, 
A glee or gavotte at the tavern's sign. 

And a jig 'neath the jutting eaves. 

I sip with thee, Noll, a full red glass 

To the vine-dresser's worldly weal. 
To the bliss of the laughing lad and lass 

Who a kiss in the gloaming steal ! 
I pledge to thee, Noll, and the tender lays 

That out of thy reed-pipe flow, 
To the village damsels of b5^gone days 

And the gallants of long ago ! 

Pipe on thy songs of the fruitful vine, 

Thy ballads of true-love bliss : 
As we taste the sweets of the ruby wine 

And the cheeks of the maidens kiss ! 
Pipe on to the children who press the knee, 

To the grandam and grandsire gray, 
And the harvesters shouting in lightsome glee 

To the strains of the pipe we play ! 

I trudge with thee, Noll, o'er hill and dale 

And list to the sound of thy voice. 
In a rural poem, or rustic tale, 

That makes my glad heart rejoice. 
I care not how far is the foreign shore, 

Nor tarry for tempest or rain, 
For thy Gentle Hermit is heard once more, 

And thy Vicar is seen again. 



40 



Through Loire's bright valley we'll fondly roam, 

And join in the villagers' dance ! 
And sing with the peasants who deck their home 

With the gorgeous flowers of France ! 
I'll follow thy footsteps, dear jovial Noll, 

To thrill at the sound of thy pipe, 
Famed pastoral minstrel, whose melodies roll 

Where the fruit of the heart is ripe ! 



41 



T 



ROBERT BURNS AT MOSSGIEI.. 



HERE were two men at the plow, 

Turning furrows in the soil, 
With the sweat upon their brow, 

Sturdy, honest sons of toil; 
Th' old horse that each one drove 

Picked its way among the clods, 
As the field-mouse downward dove 

In its hole beneath the sods. 
At Mossgiel ! 

One of those who trod the earth, 

With his clumsy raw-hide boots, 
In that arid field of dearth, 

Stumbling over rocks and roots. 
Said to him who followed nigh, 

A fine, tall, and manly youth. 
With a bold though dreamy eye, 

"Let us plow a match, forsooth!" 
At Mossgiel ! 

Like a claymore 'mong the ranks 

Of a hostile clan they cut 
Through the clay of sterile banks. 

And each rough and rugged rut; 
As they labored all the day. 

Striving both to do their best, 
Not a word would either say 

Till the sun sank in the west. 
At Mossgiel ! 



42 



Dully one lad plodded on, 

Thinking only of his task, 
While the other farmer's son 

Would in vain the question ask : 
"Why the siller and the gold 

Comes to hard, material men. 
Beyond mortal needs fourfold, 

But cheers not the poet's pen?" 
At Mossgiel ! 

"Still," he cried, "my heart will cling, 

In despite of weal or woe, 
To the songs I love to sing 

While the whistling breezes blow; 
For the mither in our home 

Will I work from morn till night, 
Though my fancy free shall roam 

Through the realms of rapt delight." 
At Mossgiel ! 

On they walked for weary hours. 

O'er the stones and barren land, 
'Mid the sunshine and the showers. 

With the hafts in either hand ; 
Till the quicker of the twain 

Quit his plow in gladsome haste. 
Shouting, ' ' Rab, the match I gain. 

No more effort need you waste!" 
At Mossgiel ! 

And the slower of them, then, 

A quick start from revery gave ; 
He had lost by furrows ten 

And not now the day could save; 
But a glory round his head. 

Where the crowns of saints belong, 
Shone upon him as he said, 

"While I plowed I made a song!" 
At Mossgiel ! 

43 



Aye, a song he sang indeed, 

That rang out around the world, 
For a flower and not a weed 

From that furrow was unfurled ; 
And his field mouse, 'mid her fears, 

Cowering, trembling on the ground. 
Moved the souls of men to tears 

That in human hearts abound. 
At Mossgiel ! 



44 



THE DUEL OF BURR AND HAMILTON. 

UPON the heights of Weehawken when fields were fresh 
and green, 
And ripples at the river's side shone bright with sunshine sheen, 
A solemn group of silent men stood 'mid the tangled trees 
That hid that solitary spot and waved in summer's breeze. 

A secret tryst, a sacred nook for lovers' fervent bliss 
Where Coryden might softly sigh, and Amaryllis kiss, 
And blithesome birds a rondel sing in merry strains of love, 
While buds and blossoms wooed and wed in nest-built boughs 
above. 

Who dared the wage of battle at so halcyon an hour 
In that peaceful sanctuary, that pastoral bridal bower? 
Could hero be so warlike, or human hate so strong 
As to defile so fair a fane with mortal wanton wrong? 

Ah ! souls of men are raging seas when swept by tempest blast 
And wrecks of dearest hopes and aims lie ocean deep at last ; 
The fiery stars are less aflame than passion in the proud, 
And rivalry and malice strike as lightnings from the cloud. 

Within that shady wooded shrine a tragic act was near 
To move the hearts of strongest men with many a bitter tear; 
Old comrades of the drill and camp, the best on tented field, 
Had met in duel to the death as knights of lance and shield. 

One, Hamilton, the great and good, and Washington's true 

friend ; 
The other, a conspirator, bold Burr to the dauntless end ; 
Each chieftain's crest a champion crowned beside the shores of 

Styx. 
Brave sons of the Revolution both, stanch spirits of seventy-six. 

45 



Two soldiers face to face were they, who bore the battle's brunt ; 
Two statesmen there with tight-set lips, and firm, defiant front; 
Their seconds paced the deadly ground, and planned the fatal 

sign, 
Then gave their arms to erring men, erect in martial line. 

No flush or shade on either brow, no fear their forms displayed 
As sharp rang out the signal "Fire !" and foes the word obeyed ; 
The bullets whistled on the wind to work their dire behest. 
And Hamilton fell wounded sore, his head upon his breast. 

Oh, colonel of the patriot days, a dark deed hast thou done 
'Neath cloudless skies and rustling leaves lit by the morning sun ! 
The birds will ne'er sing sweet for thee, nor wild flowers brightly 

bloom. 
The voice of conscience whispers, ' 'Thou hast sealed thy brother's 

doom!" 

The ghost of that scene haunted him through dreary years of 

shame, 
E'en children hastened past his door and shuddered at his name ; 
Alone he drifted, sad and stem, away upon that sea. 
Where derelict and shipwrecked lives are lost to obloquy. 



46 



M 



GENERAI. GARFIELD'S MOTHER. 



OTHER, mother, in the doorway 
Waiting, waiting for a word, 

Watching, watching for a message, 

Tearful, trusting in the Lord. 
Would our wealth of love had nerved you, 
Would a people's prayers had served you. 
To good cheer afford ! 

Mother, mother, in the doorway. 
Once you nursed a baby boy,.- 

Taught his little feet to toddle. 
Taught his helpless hands to toy 

With his playthings, prattling, smiling. 

Your young motherhood beguiling 
With his infant joy. 

Mother, mother, in the doorway, 
You who showed him virtue's path, 

Guided him past childhood's perils. 

Through the ways removed from wrath. 

Well that son repaid your guarding 

Love with richest love rewarding 
In life's after-math. 



Mother, mother, in the doorway. 
Resting in the noontide glow. 

On your white hair seemed to linger 
Kisses of the long ago. 

There with later kisses blending 

As the nation's ruler bending 

Pressed the mother's brow. 



47 



Mother, mother, in the doorway. 
Stricken with a mother's grief. 

You were looking where the lonely 
We are told shall find relief : 

Looking far beyond the valley 

Toward the field where soldiers rally 
From the battle brief. 



Mother, mother, in the doorway, 

Womanly in hours of woe 
When his country's soul was with him 

Where the waters ebb and flow. 
With our history his is written, 
And our hearts with yours were smitten 
And our heads bent low. 

Mother, mother, in the doorway. 
Great his work and bravely done, 

On the nation's roll of honor 
Proud the place he nobly won : 

All his fame who dearly cherish 

Will not let his memory perish, 
Your immortal son ! 



48 



BLBERON. 



ABOVE the sea the stars were gently shining 
And twinkhng in the night 
As life and death with brawny arms entwining 
Wrestled in weary fight. 

The whispering waters hushed their idle prattle, 

The wild winds held their breath, 
To watch the ebb and flow of the fierce battle 

Waged between life and death. 

Both earth and sky were silent in their sorrow — 

The end had come at last — 
And burning tears of nature ere the morrow 

Told that the worst was passed. 

A patriot soul had left its suffering pillow 

And gone out on the sea 
Toward the stars so far beyond the billow 

Which beckon you and me. 

Upon the sea the stars were softly shining 

And shimmering in the night. 
As winds and waves their gentle arms entwining 

Wept sadly at the sight. 



49 



ALOHA! 

RHYTHMIC word of kindly greeting, 
Used alike by prince and peasant, 
Strangers' heart to set abeating 

With its welcome warm and pleasant- 
Thrill my senses at the sound 
As my grateful pulses bound ! 

Hear it spoke by children's voices 
Gay at sport in grassy byways ! 

Hear it 'mong the merry noises 
Of the meadows and the highways 

Falling mellow on the air 

From red lips so ripe and rare ! 

When the moonlight glints the ocean 
With a sheen of silver splendor, 

And the waves with drowsy motion 
To the sands their homage tender, 

Then in dreams that word is breathed 

And a web of beauty wreathed. 

Let me listen to aloha 

From my gentle island-brother, 
For it seems a word of more 

Cordial cheer than any other 
As the salutation peals 
And upon my spirit steals ! 

And aloha let me utter 

In a friendship true and faithful, 
'Mid the leaves that fitful flutter 

And the clouds that darken wrathful, 
When the sea storm flings its foam 
On the rocks where fishers roam ! 



50 



And aloha let me offer 

When the trade winds fan the Pali 
And a dawn refreshing proffer 

To the green Nuuanu valley; 
When the whitecaps kiss our deck 
And with froth the ocean fleck ! 

When the fleecy, downy masses 

In the heavens sweep the mountains, 

And the breeze that softly passes 
Wakes to life its snowy fountains, 

Will I give that greeting glad 

To each laughing lass and lad — 

Who with garlands on their bosoms 
And bright lais about the forehead 

Of the gaudy, gilded blossoms 
That adorn the islands torrid, 

Meet me dancing down the dells 

To the chimes of chapel bells. 

Yes, I love the winsome manner 
Of the peaceful island people 

'Neath the guava and banana 
And the palm tree's russet steeple! 

Open hearts and open doors 

Beckon to those tropic shores. 

Yield I back in greetings golden 

As I tread the coral islands 
The Hawaiian salve olden 

Of the coast and azure highlands, 
An aloha from the soul 
Where Pacific's surges roll. 



51 



Dulcet tones of hearty welcome 
Fond alike to gay and dreary 

To my memory like a bell come 
With their music light and cheery, 

And I wish with loving smiles 

Warm alohas to those isles. 



H0NOLUI.U, 1883. 



52 



M 



ON THE RIO GRANDE. 

ANY a day has sped, I say, 

Since I've tasted the old Big Sandy, 
For my ranch is now in the Texas slough, 

And I drink of the Rio Grande — 
The stream from which Taylor watered his grog 

When he tippled with Santa Anna, 
And toasted his health in a soldierly nog, 

And a rough-and-ready manner. 

So I pledge their fame and heroic name, 

Forgotten be their memory never. 
Or the battles they won 'neath a Mexican sun, 

And I drink to their glory forever, 
By the stream from which Taylor watered his grog 

When he tippled with Santa Anna, 
And toasted his health in a soldierly nog 

And a rough-and-ready manner. 



C01.ORADO, 1884. 



53 



w 



THE POBTS' CORNER. 

BSTMINSTBR Abbey! Who can scan thy nave, 
Sacred to ashes dear to mortal man, 
Without an awe-struck soul beside the grave 
Of genius brightest since the world began? 



What flights of fancy ! Chaucer takes the lead 
From Canterbury with his pilgrim band, 

"WTiom Spenser and the Faerie Queene outspeed. 
To waft a greeting from the spirit land. 

Then rare Ben Jonson, Briton to the core, 
And doughty Drayton glide upon the stage, 

With Cowley, Congreve, Dryden, dust no more, 
Their signets stamp upon the breathing page. 

Macphcrson, classic Milton, thoughtful Gray, 
Mat. Pryor, Rowe and Davenant flit past, 

As David Garrick treads the Appian Way 
In royal purple for great Caesar cast. 

The age of good Queen Anne, with Johnson wise, 
Dogmatic, dictatorial, sagely grand ; 

Warm-hearted Goldsmith, whom the people prize ; 
Melodious Gay, and Addison the bland ! 

And Campbell, Sheridan and Southey crowd 

The azure field of galaxies sublime. 
Before accoutered chiefs and courtiers proud, 

The kings of letters' realm throughout all time. 

And as one dreams and ponders all these things, 
A child's small voice comes cheery to the ear, 

And Tiny Tim a Christmas Carol sings 
As on the grave of Dickens falls a tear. 



54 



No sculptured urn above the sacred dust, 

No tablature to chronicle his fame ; 
But there amid the ages' crumbling rust 

A simple slab to mark the well-loved name. 

Above this Thackeray's bust in radiance seen 
Tells truer than tall monuments of stone 

That memory keeps his mighty image green 
In love and tender reverence alone. 

And now the bard who sang us Locksley Hall, 

Godiva and the Idylls of the King 
Is garnered as the autumn harvests fall 

And ripened boughs abroad their brown leaves fling. 

O poet-knight, thy quest was not in vain, 
A soul like thine in faith can never fail ; 

The cross of Christ is seen by thee again, 
Sir Galahad has found the Holy Grail ! 

O Tennyson, the last to soar among 

Those souls of mighty ones from earth set free, 

No more shall mortals listen to thy song, 

But bards celestial chant thy themes with thee ! 



55 



THE LIGHTS OF BALTIMORE. 

STAND upon Patuxent's shore 
And see the lights of Baltimore — 
A silvery drapery of the sky, 
Where shadows of the city lie ; 
The light and shade of human life, 
An intermingling peace and strife. 
The smiles, the tears, the joy, the gloom, 
The burial pall, the bridal bloom. 
The teeming city's ceaseless roar, 
Amid the lights of Baltimore. 

The city streets beneath the light, 

The crowds that circle in the night. 

The shops ablaze with gleaming wares, 

The sidewalks gay with gladsome pairs. 

The music halls alive with throngs 

That sip the glass and hear the songs, 

The mortal stage of mimic scenes. 

The wanton crowned with wreath of greens. 

The mellow fruit with bitter core, 

Amid the lights of Baltimore. 

The student pale from stress of thought 
To win the laurels learning wrought, 
The begging vagrants of the curb 
Who wealth's complacency disturb. 
The drunkard in his sottish sleep 
While wife and children starve and weep. 
The widow and the orphan lone 
Who wanting bread receive a stone 
In mockery of the words of yore, 
Amid the lights of Baltimore. 



56 



The felon in his shameful cell, 
The snowflake once so pure that fell, 
The victim silent in her blood 
Where yesterday a bride she stood, 
The belles of opera and ball, 
The beaux who flock at folly's call. 
The gambler on the fatal road. 
Its goal the pistol's leaden load. 
Instead of fortune's golden store 
Amid the lights of Baltimore. 

And as I watch the changeful glow 
The shadows fade, the lights burn low 
And darkness flings its dreamy folds 
O'er every soul the city holds; 
And where the weird fantastic glare 
Showed me those specters in the air 
The stars shine out in bliss above 
With all their wealth of hope and love 
And bless the scenes I saw before, 
Amid the lights of Baltimore. 



Yarrow Brae, 1892. 



57 



SHERIDAN. 

AMONG the military dead, 
The marshals of great wars, 
A general who armies led, 

A grand and mighty Mars, 
The foremost in the battle's front, 

The bravest of the brave. 
Defied the hostile bayonet's brunt 

Where flags of heroes wave, 
Phil Sheridan of Winchester, 

Who trampled on defeat, 
And turned unbeaten forces there 

Back from their rash retreat 
To win a glorious victory, 

With flashing federal sword. 
Forward thy spirit marches free 

In the squadrons of the Lord. 
A legacy of soldier fame 

Thy country gained from thee, 
And all the land shall hail thy name 

With songs of liberty. 
The love that glows our souls to cheer 

Each patriot breast shall fill ; 
The sword that waved at Winchester 

Was the sword of Bunker Hill. 



58 



BROWN OCTOBER. 



FOR dolce far niente and idling in prsesenti, - 

October is the month of the year; 
A fire in every hovel, 
With chestnuts on the shovel, 
And balmy, laughing autumn crisp and clear. 

For riding, rowing, walking; for thinking, reading, talking, 
October is the month of the year; 

With sunshine on the river. 

With frosts to bring a shiver, 
And bracing winds that make the blood dance freer. 

For shooting, fishing, sailing, astern the tackle trailing, 
October is the month of the year; 

Roast apples on the table. 

Doves cooing on the gable, 
Nor drought nor storm to turn the prospect drear. 

For dolce far niente, and dreaming in prjj^senti, 

October is the month of the year; 

Then hearts of men grow lightest, 
And health and hope grow brightest — 
A glad to-day to-morrow makes more dear. 



Yarrow Brab, 1895. 



59 



SANTIAGO. 

FROM our Yankee fleet rose a thund'rous roar, 
A deafening shout from five hundred throats, 
When our throbbing crews saw the ships near shore, 
The yellow and red on the Spanish boats ; 
Their shout of wrath was the firm refrain — 
* ' Remember the Maine ! Remember the Maine ! " 

Not only the rattle and roar of lead, 

But a roar from the throats of determined men 
Sworn to chastise for their comrades dead, 
A hundred for one in that cooped-up pen ; 
A hundred for one of their shipmates slain, 
Meeting death in the Maine ! Meeting death in the Maine. 

And every officer felt the thrill 

Of that glorious shout from our sailors brave. 
Panting in combat to conquer or kill 

And make of that harbor a Spanish grave. 

They vowed that their guns should destruction rain, 
On account of the Maine ! On account of the Maine ! 

Swift came the conflict of ship with ship. 

The duel of broadsides and man to man ; 
To the Yankees the Spaniards their colors dip 
In the grandest of triumphs since war began : 
The decks of the Spanish they justly stain 
For the sake of the Maine ! For the sake of the Maine ! 

* * Remember the Maine ! Remember the Maine ! " 

The war cry that maddened our men in fight. 
As they scuttled the squadron of vanquished Spain, 
Thrice-armed in the battle for God and right; 
Thrice-armed in the victory brave men gain — 
Avenged was the Maine ! Avenged was the Maine ! 



60 



OUR SOLDIERS' SONG. 

* ' When the destruction of Cervera's fleet became known be- 
fore Santiago the soldiers cheered wildly, and, with one accord 
through miles of trenches, began singing 'The Star-Spangled 
Banner.'" 



s 



INGING "The Star-Spangled Banner" 

Right in the jaws of death ! 
Singing our glorious anthem, 

Some with their latest breath ! 
The strains of that solemn miusic 

Through the spirit will ever roll, 
Thrilling with martial ardor 

The depths of each patriot soul. 

Hearing the hum of the bullets ! 

Eager to charge the foe ! 
Biding the call to battle, 

Where crimson heart streams flow ! 
Thinking of home and dear ones, 

Of mother, of child, of wife, 
They sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" 

On that field of deadly strife. 

They sang with the voices of heroes, 

In the face of the Spanish guns. 
As they leaned on their loaded rifles. 

With the courage that never runs. 
They sang to our glorious emblem. 

Upraised on that war-worn sod, 
As the saints in the old arena 

Sang a song of praise to God. 



6i 



w 



AT GENERAL WAUCHOPE'S GRAVE. 



HAT do the pipes in the gloaming play 
To the kilts as they march in column? 

"The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away" 
And "Lochaber" the dirges solemn. 

One of their heroes in battle sank, 
One of their best and their bravest 

Fell at the front of their foremost rank — ; 
Thou takest the life Thou gavest ! 

Bold was his soul as the Highland hills 

And warm as a Lowland valley; 
A man who the measure of manhood fills, 

A chieftain the clans to rally. 

True to his comrades, his flag, his queen. 
With his breast to the foe they found him, 

And laid him to rest where the sod is green 
With a Scottish tartan 'round him. 



November, 1900. 



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